


All for One and One for All

by Lupercal12



Series: Alphonse De Sardet [2]
Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Bonding, Bullying, F/M, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Redemption, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22750630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lupercal12/pseuds/Lupercal12
Summary: Just a collection of nonsense with hopefully a piece concerning each companion.
Series: Alphonse De Sardet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946386
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Kurt-Greenblood

The night courtyard was silent save for the odd song of an unseen bird. Kurt sat hunched over on a stone bench, his forearms resting on his knees. Two wooden practice swords lay next to him.

 _He’s not going to show_ , Kurt was beginning to think. He resigned himself to the fact. _The royal fledgling is probably curled up in bed, reading one of his books or fast asleep._

Kurt cursed himself for the effort. He could easily be in bed himself or at the tavern with the fellows, enjoying a pint and a game of cards as well. The image came quickly to him; Oscar on his feet singing with a half spilled mug in one hand and the other deep in the bodice of a serving girl. Randall and Lory would be adding their boots along to the pot they would be playing to win.

 _This is it,_ Kurt thought. _I’m calling it._

Prince D’Orsay had paid handsomely for one of the finest instructors in Serene when he sought a master at arms for his son and nephew. And who was finer than one of the Coin Guards own? Kurt took the assignment eagerly enough. Easy pay to teach a pair of nobles how not to stab themselves in the foot. The barracks had exploded with ribbing at his fortune the same day; jeers were told that he had moved above his station, that Kurt would do the occasional guard duty to a noble visiting the privy. His smiles had curdled then at the laughter, and his high spirits vanished. But with the reputation of the Guard to uphold, Kurt went into the job committed if not enthusiastic.

Footsteps sounded from across the courtyard. Kurt squinted to see the approaching figure better, but too little light showed from a few windows and lit torches. He got to his feet with the practice swords in his hands. Kurt and the newcomer came within two feet of each other.

“Glad of you to grace me with your presence, Greenblood,” Kurt said humorlessly.

De Sardet frowned at him with angry eyes. The boy looked like he had been pulled out of bed; he wore a nightshirt too large for him, he swayed slightly on the spot, and his long hair was undone. The fifteen-year-old muttered, “My mother pulled me out of bed to come to see you,”

_The Princess, curse her, I don’t want to be here either._

Kurt smiled and chuckled, “What? Sad, your mummy didn’t tie your hair in that girly little ribbon you always wear, at least?” the boy pouted. Kurt, to his amusement, had seen it too many times as the woman had done his hair in a silly silk red ribbon. De Sardet never seemed the least conscious of it.

“You knew you were supposed to meet me out here tonight,” Kurt told him sternly. He waved the practice swords he still carried in the boys face.

De Sardet flinched away while not taking his eyes off him. “It’s dark,” he complained. “Why didn’t we do this during the day?”

_Ask your mum, Greenblood._

“Just a practice to test your instincts,” Kurt said with a straight face. “It’s important that a person is always prepared with a weapon. Confrontation usually comes when you least expect it, so what better way than with you half asleep and unprepared?”

De Sardet raised an eyebrow. Kurt prepared a rebuttal to his questions, but the boy remained silent. He instead made to grab one of the wooden swords; Kurt pulled them back. “You know the rules,” Kurt said with a tone that brokered no argument.

De Sardet sighed as he put away his magic ring in one of his pants pockets. Next, he went over to the weapon racks to equip the padded wool gear that rested on the ground. Sometime later, De Sardet had finished and returned to Kurt. He took one of the swords begrudgingly. Kurt appraised him, one month of training, and the boy still looked out of place in the equipment. A pig would wear it better. And not once had De Sardet managed to land a single blow. But that was going to change tonight, Kurt vowed grimly.

He raised his sword, prepared to go on the offensive. “Come hell or first light, I don’t care,” Kurt promised. “You won’t be leaving until you hit me, Greenblood. Now fight with honor!” and he lunged.

De Sardet was quick enough and tall for his age, but that was all Kurt would allow. He had quickly discovered his charge was a coward, too frightened to swing his weapon for a strike and too afraid of being hit in turn. His young face was always tense for the next episode of pain that every bruise and cut delivered. If it were up to Kurt, the boy would be better off with his magic. That at least seemed to bring De Sardet some pride; to summon those unnatural tendrils of bright light swirling like serpents around his arms. He almost seemed formidable. But alas, Kurt did not allow magic.

Kurt overextended himself with a full swing of his sword. For a moment, he lost his balance. He was so driven to put every ounce of his strength into each strike. He was no longer wielding it like a blade but a hammer. De Sardet hesitated, for once Kurt expected it was his turn. He waited. It passed. Kurt straightened up as he watched De Sardet put distance between them.

 _Unfucking believable,_ Kurt thought exasperated.

He closed the distance. One blow struck De Sardet’s sword hand, a second took him square in the chest, and he fell backward. The air was loud with their panting. Kurt stared down at the boy; De Sardet did not move. Kurt nudged his side with the tip of his boot and ordered him to stand. Nothing.

Kurt glowered and said through gritted teeth, “Up! Off your back, Greenblood!"

“You leave him alone!”

A palace door stood open with a small boy hiding behind it save for the upper part of his body.

Kurt laughed mirthlessly into the night sky. “Oh, blessed night,” Kurt said with a mocking smile. “To be joined by the royal duckling of Prince D’Orsay, himself. Back to your nest, little one, I’ll spar with you another time.”

Constantin left the safety of the door in his nightclothes to march down the short steps. His blond hair was matted heavily against his head, and even in the dark, Kurt took notice of his unnaturally pale skin. Though the prince did not reach past his elbows, Constantin walked up to him to glare up at Kurt. From the ground, De Sardet was picking himself with one hand on his chest.

“You’re a horrible master at arms!” Constantin was shouting. At his sides, his tiny fists were clenched. “I wish Sir Bissonette were still here. He was the greatest! Best duellist in Serene, everyone said.”

Kurt rested his sword across his shoulders lazily, he said not unkindly “Sir Bissonette is one year dead, Constantin, taken by the Malichor. I’m his replacement.” He would have gone on. He would have said if the dead man was so great, why was his student still frightened of a sword? Why did De Sardet struggle just to put on his armor? But out of respect for this dead stranger, Kurt said nothing.

He asked the prince why he was out of bed. Constantin told him he knew about the training from his cousin, who told him at dinner.

Kurt wondered at the two boys, a five-year difference between them and so unalike in looks and personality, where De Sardet’s skin was a reddish-brown with dark eyes and raven black hair, Constantin was pale and blond. De Sardet visited the library often to read in solitude or stayed with his teacher, Sir De Courcillon, after lessons eager to learn something new. In contrast, Constantin was usually the one to run through the halls exclaiming he was a wizard, a knight, or some fairy tale creature in his imagination. The prince could often be seen playing with the servants' children even on some odd days. Kurt questioned how was it that they were so inseparable? He thought it was unhealthy.

Constantin turned to his cousin, and said, “I thought you said you wouldn’t go? You whispered that to me,”

De Sardet avoided Kurt’s gaze. The Coin Guard rolled his eyes with a heavy sigh. “Greenblood, pick up your sword. We are going again. Move away, Constantin, you could get hurt,”

The prince’s cousin bid him move back to the steps where he sat down sullenly. Soon the resounding noise of wood on wood echoed. Kurt refrained from using his full strength, but even with that De Sardet was struggling; he could only just parry and block every attack Kurt sent. The sparring did not require his full attention. Kurt gazed down to watch his footwork; not awful, again, he was quick. Eager to avoid pain.

But what about inflicting it? He thought back to Princess De Sardet’s words earlier that day.

One of Kurt's slashes cut through the air quickly enough for it to sound. De Sardet was slouching over with sweat traveling down his face. The practice sword hung low in his grip. Kurt smiled wide and said, “De Sardet, do you wanna know the real reason we are out here at night?” He observed De Sardet’s expression. “It’s so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of an audience,” De Sardet’s face was impassive. He merely wiped his brow clean of sweat with the back of a hand.

“C’mon, De Sardet, am I wrong? Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the eyes on you during our little fun games? They’re laughing at you, the nobles that come to visit your uncle, their children. Shit, even the servants too. This was mummy’s idea to save her some shame as well,” Kurt paced back and forth, twirling his sword as he passed it between his hands.

The tension grew thick, but De Sardet did not react. Kurt began to encircle him, and the boy’s eyes followed him, regarding him with caution. Off to the side, Constantin was saying something that Kurt did not catch. Without warning but with deliberate slowness, Kurt attacked with his sword; De Sardet blocked it. The dance was renewed. Their sparring took them across the courtyard and back again with the way De Sardet moved to avoid Kurt’s attacks. Constantin was on his feet watching intently.

_If that didn’t work this will,_

Without effort, Kurt lunged out with his free hand to grab the collar of De Sardet’s padded doublet and pull him close. Their faces were within inches of each other. Kurt smirked, “Where’s your spine, Greenblood? Do you have to give them any more reason to point and laugh? That mark on your face is sufficient cause enough, why add more fuel to the fire?”

“Go to hell,” De Sardet breathed venomously. He shook like a leaf. Kurt felt it through his hold on him.

“What are you going to do?” Kurt said, chuckling. “Hit me? No. No, you won’t. I should have realized that a long time ago. There's milk in your veins, boy. Tell me, is it true at the last ball your uncle held, the lord's Beaumont and Auvrey’s boys made you weep?”

De Sardet’s mouth worked silently for a second before he managed, “If I had my ring …”

_Oh? Now we are getting somewhere._

“Now you shut up about that,” called Constantine angrily from the steps. “Those boys are lunkheads.”

The talk among the staff was that a week ago at a function, Prince D’Orsay had held, while the adults were in the ballroom, the noble children were given free rein in the upper halls. Where usually, De Sardet would have been off by himself or his cousin, proper etiquette demanded that he socialize with the children of other nobles. Kurt did not recall the rest but gathered it ended with De Sardet hidden away in the library only to be found by the others and pelted with crumbs of cake, being called ‘freak’!

Kurt tilted his head to the side to gaze at the boy’s deformity, a blotch of discolored skin the color and appearance of moss that spread in thin, jagged lines across the left side of his jaw and cheek. “Stop staring at it,” De Sardet said in a weak voice. Kurt was quite surprised by the emotion in it.

He delivered the killing blow. He scoffed, “What are you going to do about it frea-”

_Wham!_

Kurt blinked. He released his grip and felt at his mouth; a finger pressed down against his lips. A mild jolt of warm pain responded, and Kurt stopped. His lips would begin to swell soon.

Meanwhile, De Sardet had thrown down his sword and turned away. Kurt called out to him. The boy climbed the steps as his young cousin met him. There was an odd tremor in his posture Kurt caught.

He called De Sardet’s name again but received no response. Abandoning his sword, Kurt walked up to De Sardet, grabbed him by a shoulder, and turned him around. Tears were rolling down to his chin, where they fell like raindrops into his doublet. De Sardet did not meet his eyes.

 _Oh, shit,_ Kurt thought.

He let him go, and De Sardet slumped down onto the cold steps. He could only stare awkwardly as his student struggled to hold back his cries. Constantin sat down by his side, so small, and held one of his arms. Constantin whispered to him in a tone of disbelief, “Why did you have to say that?”

_I was just doing the job I’m being paid to. This is what Prince D’Orsay wanted of me. And the Princess De Sardet said, by whatever means. …_

Tears were strange to Kurt. He had not cried since his childhood, a time he would rather forget — a time where visits to his bed by older men and beatings in the night were his reality. In Coin Guard camps, children were not treated as children but recruits; that is what they were. From an early age, Kurt was hacking away at a target with live steel; He was learning to brawl with his fists and wearing steel armor. Any weakness was met with derision and punishment. There was no fraternity to be found among the others his age, no promise of compassion, or mutual brotherhood.

Kurt had learned simply to grow small and hold back the pain, to fight against the threat of his tears. To do so otherwise was to be mocked. Yet, there was this fifteen-year-old noble sobbing before him.

These nobles are a different breed of man to break so easily he told himself.

“Stop that now, Greenblood,” Kurt commanded him. He didn’t.

The spectacle continued for some seconds before Kurt bent over. He took one of De Sardet’s gloves and pulled it off carefully. “You struck your blow,” Kurt said. “It may not have been the type I expected, but I am a man of my word. Let’s get you out of that gear and out of my hair. You can go,”

De Sardet was soon free. He had composed himself enough to ask Kurt a question; had his mother asked him to do this? Kurt answered, yes. Before their usual practice, Princess De Sardet had met him in the courtyard as he was doing inventory. They spoke in low voices. The Princess requested the night training. She wanted to spare her son the humiliation of being watched by others. “Your mum - ah, hellfire, she told me to use any means necessary to get you to improve,” Kurt said.

De Sardet blinked at him. He looked incredulous. “My mother is ashamed of me …” he said softly.

_No, don’t cry again._

Kurt lowered himself, so their eyes were level and said, “The hell she is. Damn it, Greenblood, we didn’t do this out of malice! Call it cruel if you will. I call it a desperate strategy to get you to hit me. To hit me just once!” from out of nowhere, Kurt continued despite himself.

“At your age, I was already killing men. Anyone not in the Guard, a noble’s son, is handling actual weapons. Greenblood, you are way behind on your training. The fault doesn’t lie completely with this, Sir Bissonette. Someone needs to tell you that there are certain things expected of you - and one of them is learning to fight with a sword. Life won’t always be with your books. I need you to meet me halfway otherwise we are wasting our time,”

The two cousins were quiet. De Sardet had dried his face and stared at him. Kurt regarded him curiously. Not an ugly lad. Smart. Wielded magic like Kurt did his blade and member to one of the wealthiest houses in the Congregation. The boy could straddle the Congregation if he wanted.

“These bullies who provoke you, tell me, do you ever hit back? Do you even want to?”

Constantin answered for him, “My cousin never does anything. That night at the ball, everyone was friendly enough with a grown-up watching us. Soon as we were left alone, they asked about his birthmark, called him names, and were making dares to touch it. He ran away. That’s what he does,”

He asked if it ever made him angry or desire to fight back. De Sardet only wished to be left in peace. Kurt spat a glob of phlegm over his shoulder. He knew that feeling well enough from his boyhood. Hermann’s whisperings sounded in his mind like echoes from the past. Nonexistent warm breath moistened the nape of his neck. Kurt cleared the thoughts away.

“Greenblood, I can’t promise the bullies will go away,” He said, getting to his feet. “But if you’ll let me, you will be capable of defending yourself. That’s a lie that you never feel angry. Your little love tap proved that. Together we’ll use that anger, build on it. Soon enough words won’t hurt you, and using a sword shall come easy as breathing. I might even teach you how to throw a punch if the bullies ever come again,” De Sardet stood up.

His brow was heavy in contemplation. Kurt held out his hand. De Sardet took it in a slight grip and they shook once. Kurt told them to go back to their nests, but not before a final word.

“Your mum loves you,” Kurt told him. “She’s a good woman. Now off you go, my royal fledglings!”

The hot sun beat down hard on them. Kurt removed his hat to wipe away the sweat from his brow. He fanned himself eagerly with it as he leaned back against a tree. From his belt, Kurt took a leather canteen and drank from it. After several swallows of warm water, he poured a small amount over his head. Across the grass and road were strewn five corpses in various postures where they died. Bandits. On the way to San Matheus, the party had been ambushed from the tall grass and bushes.

Vasco was on his knees going through the grim duty of collecting valuables from the corpses; ammunition, gold, and comparing their weapons. The Naut compared his foil to a short saber he had looted from an unlucky decapitated bandit. He shrugged before dropping the saber and moving on to the pockets of the next bandit.

Farther away on the road, De Sardet cleaned his blade with a rag. Once satisfied, he sheathed it. By chance, they locked eyes. De Sardet smiled and nodded.

 _Not so green anymore,_ Kurt returned it and raised his canteen in salute.


	2. Petrus-Father and Son

“Young man? Pardon me, are you not part of the new governor’s entourage?”

He turned around.

_Arelwin, if you could see him now._

The Legate introduced himself.

Petrus searched the newcomer’s expression. To his disappointment, he did not see a spark of recognition dawn. Perhaps, that was too optimistic; fifteen years was a long time, and since then, his mane had greyed, and lines of age creased his visage. And were they really so close back at his time at court? Prince D’Orsay kept Petrus away from the boy where he could in those few years. What time Petrus was given, teaching him magic and the faith he owed to Princess De Sardet, at her discretion.

It was with great sorrow that Petrus was dismissed from the Theleme embassy that day. Old and hunched, Cardinal Malius and Prince D’Orsay came into the room he was assigned to teach in. Petrus had been preparing for the day’s lesson at their arrival. Cardinal Malius informed him he would be returning to Theleme. Behind the Cardinal, the Prince looked on with cold eyes and a faint smile of satisfaction across his lips.

The sky overhead was grey like stone, cloudless, and without the warmth of the sun. Even from where the party rested, they could still taste and smell the salt of the sea. They waited silently at camp for the Legate to stir.

Kurt sharpened his blade with a whetstone unnecessarily, as he sat on a chest. The Coin Guard's brow was furrowed darkly. Vasco feigned interest with a compass he had pulled from his coat. His heavy boots betrayed him with the rhythmic tapping of his heels against the ground. Apart from the others by a small distance as was her custom, Aphra stood with her back to them as she occupied the workbench; glass vials of different sizes and ingredients littered its surface. Sitting cross-legged near the firepit, Siora was deep in meditation; eyes shut from the world and the palms of her hands against the earth. Her breathing was steady and silent.

And Petrus was at the Legate's side together gazing south. They were silent and still as they had been for some minutes. A cool breeze passed. De Sardet flinched at its touch. Petrus continued to keep his sight on the distant village of Vignamri. Even from camp, the large ribs of whales were visible, stabbing at the sky.

"Petrus," De Sardet said flatly. He turned to face him. "I believe I am as ready as I will ever be. Let us not defer this any longer," and stared back to his ancestral home.

Petrus agreed. He moved to place a hand on his young companion's shoulder when De Sardet turned around. Awkwardly, Petrus lowered it and followed him as they approached the camp. Everyone rose to their feet at their arrival and gathered at the fire pit.

"Ready to get this done, Greenblood?" asked Kurt, arms crossed.

De Sardet nodded once. He looked to each of them in turn-except for Petrus. "I thank you all for coming with me. Your support and presence here are invaluable," he said.

"Please forgive me if I -"

"Take it easy and take it slow, De Sardet," said Vasco calmly. The corners of his mouth twitched downwards. "We'll be waiting if you would want someone else to come along?"

Petrus did not fail to notice glances thrown in his direction. He pulled himself up straight, making his armor sound. Ever since the affair in San Matheus at the governor's palace, Petrus had been isolated from the group. Without a word being exchanged, he was excluded; voices went silent at his approach, his meals were eaten alone, and he traveled behind his fellows. Where once Petrus had his old age and proud faith held against him, he had recently become a veritable outcast. And he suffered it silently.

 _I will endure their enmity gladly,_ he thought somberly. _It's not their forgiveness or approval I seek._

De Sardet motioned towards Siora. "Siora, I hate to involve you in this, but I believe having someone who could translate the Native language would be useful," he said with a hopeful expression.

"Of course, _carants,_ " she said, moving apart to join De Sardet and Petrus.

With the Legate between them, they set off to Vignamri. The grass became more scarce the farther along they walked with fewer trees. The sky grew darker, making the far off cliffs menacing. Petrus cast occasional glances to the man beside him; De Sardet, oblivious, continued with his eyes downcast. He carried about him a pall of grief plain to all the world like a cloak.

_Why didn't I tell him when he first arrived in San Matheus? Why did Cornelia have to rob me of the chance to tell him?_

Would he have ever told De Sardet of his own volition? Petrus knew the answers to all these questions. It was merely shame and guilt of being held accountable for his inaction, embarrassment of having loved De Sardet's mother. And as they traveled together and the long-ago bond renewed, Petrus was terrified of losing the paternal rapport between the two. He would have never told him.

_And I dared to use him. ... Even now, is all this for my benefit to alleviate this burden from my spirit?_

A voice from the past called to him. Sad and pleading, _Where is he, Petrus? Where is -_

"De Sardet?"

 _De Sardet? No. That is not it. It's ..._ Petrus thought, confused.

His attention back in the physical world, Petrus noticed something wrong. De Sardet had fallen behind them. Petrus and Siora doubled back to him. De Sardet was breathing shallowly; he did not respond to his name. Instead, he stared at the ground as he swayed on the spot.

Nerves, Petrus realized sadly. The breathing was not new. He recalled it that horrible day in San Matheus. He could still see Mother Cornelia, her petty vengeance satisfied, stare daggers at him. Petrus did not care; he only had eyes for De Sardet. His dark eyes were wide, and he panted rapidly, trying to catch his breath. Petrus had moved to offer a hand, but he had backed away from him as if Petrus had struck him. Petrus had stepped forward only for De Sardet to turn on his heels and leave. He could not chase after him in his shame.

Siora placed a hand on his shoulder. That De Sardet had accepted her touch and not his did not escape him. All of a sudden, his armor felt too heavy.

"I -I need a moment to collect myself," De Sardet said quietly. He did not make eye contact with either of them.

"Breathe," said Soira gently. "Easy enough, yes? Remember what I taught you, _On ol Menawi,_ "

De Sardet shut his eyes. He did as instructed. Inhaling and exhaling in slow, steady intervals.

 _You used to stand so tall and spoke with such confidence,_ Petrus thought. He restrained himself from showing emotion.

"Petrus, Siora -" De Sardet said. His breathing had not calmed. He shook. "I cannot do this. Let us return ..."

"But you are so close," said Siora. "Your kin is in that village!"

De Sardet shook his head, opened his eyes. "What are you expecting to happen? Will they embrace me and seat me in their home as if my mother had never vanished? Twenty-five years ..."

Petrus joined in. His voice was gentle, "You are frightened. It is only natural. Siora is right; you are so close. This is all for you and them, your family."

"We do not know each other."

"You deserve that opportunity," Petrus said firmly.

De Sardet shrugged off Siora's hand. He chuckled. He backed away to show them a sad smile. "And look at how I would approach them," he spread out his arms. "In the garb of the colonists who are stealing their home."

Petrus looked him over. De Sardet wore his typical clothing, the blue doublet embroidered with gold, the steel cuirass at his chest, with the engraved vambraces about his arms and plate greaves. The great blue cape he was so fond of hung about his shoulders. A kiss of light wind played with the loose strands of his hair.

"This is insulting," he continued. "When they see me, will they be able to differentiate me from any other _renaigse_?"

"You bear the mark," said Siora.

De Sardet said plainly, "That has never stopped so many from calling me _renaigse_."

With careful deliberateness, Petrus chose his next words. "De Sardet, my child. Consider these people's view: one of their own, your mother, vanished from home. And you still in her belly. A thing so horrible is not easily forgotten. I would wager everything the thought of you two gnaws at them every day."

"I knew Arelwin briefly, so very briefly. But she was nothing short of the most extraordinary woman I had ever known. The loss I felt for her is nothing compared to a family's or an entire village. Do this for her, your mother, I beg you. Let us end this sad story at last with closure."

They continued.

Petrus kept to the far side of the wall as he walked, he clutched the bundle he held in the nook of his arm carefully in the other he carried a lit lantern. His brisk footsteps resounded across the stone floor. He did not deign to notice the cells he was passing. An occasional arm stuck out between iron bars demanding and begging. Voices from unseen persons in the darkness of their holes cursed him, taunted him, pleaded for a word from the book of Saint Matheus.

 _This will surely bring a smile to her face,_ he thought hopefully.

He reached his destination at the end of the hall. Outside the final cell, Petrus felt his heart race. He approached, leaning forward until his face was almost pressed against the bars; he called a name into the dark. Nothing greeted him but the smell of nightsoil and earth. With a slight panic, he called out again, bringing up the lantern to shed light into the cell. The cell was bare but for a chamber pot in a far corner and a heap of blankets piled high in the opposite. Slowly the pile moved, and Petrus watched a woman rise from her rest. Arelwin kept one thick blanket wrapped around her body as she came to meet him. Her black hair hung in uncountable locks decorated with odd beads. From the crown of her head sprouted many curling uneven branches. Small smears of dirt stained her delicate face.

“Petrus,” she spoke. Her voice was strained and weak, but it was enough to send a quiver of excitement down his spine.

He said smiling, “I have brought you something,”

Arelwin bent her head to peer at what he held in his arm: her eyes widened, and she gasped. Her hands shot out from beneath her blanket to grip the bars. Petrus smile grew broader with pride. Suddenly tears filled Arelwin’s eyes. “Give him to me,” she said sobbing. Her hands shook the bars futilely. “Give me my son,”

The joy fled from Petrus then; a discomfort like a blow to his stomach began. He said nothing but crouched down as he set the lantern next to him. He then placed the bundle before him and undid a knot. Arewlin waited with labored breathing. What was inside was food and drink: a bottle and glass of wine, a skin of water, some frosted pastries, green grapes, cheese, and a heel of bread, half a duck still warm from the kitchen. Arelwin sunk to her knees. She beheld the food before her in disappointment; her mouth opened and closed.

 _You are starving … I just wanted to help you regain your health,_ he wished to say amidst the renewed crying. It was obvious she was not eating. Her cheeks were becoming hollow, and he heard from the guards she ignored the slop they fed her. Petrus chided himself for his foolishness.

“I-I am so sorry,” Petrus said. He winced to see her cry. “Arelwin, please, this was not my intention.”

Angry shouts from the nearer cell’s occupants sounded. They hurled abuse and laughed. The prison beneath the D’Orsay palace was a hell that trapped this poor woman unfairly, Petrus soon realized. Several months had passed since Petrus was shown the cells shortly after his arrival in Serene. Several months since he was led down from the bright world calm, assured holding his holy book by the Prince. His assignment would be to lead the condemned souls in prayer to bring them into the faith. To offer joy and salvation to the soon to be dead. The Prince beckoned him to the farthest cell and bid him look inside. Curious, Petrus, peered in and saw a woman. A shaking woman in rags in the middle of the cell watching them with fright.

“What has this poor woman done to find herself at home here?” he asked.

Prince D’Orsay told him to look at her head. When Petrus did, he recoiled in horror. His back hit the wall as he backpedaled. Devils were flesh and bone he thought and not solely found in the pages of his book or the sermons in church. The Prince, with an expression of bored amusement, told him that his duty in the prison would primarily be to find a way to communicate with the woman. Petrus was left alone but not before the Prince instructed from over his shoulder to not breathe a word of what transpired.

Petrus held out for Arelwin the cluster of grapes. “Arelwin, please, forgive me, if you would just eat-” a hand knocked them to the ground.

“What kind of friend are you to treat me so?” she snapped at him. In her fit, the blanket had fallen, revealing a startling thin frame.

“I am, I swear-”

“You refuse to free me from this pit: you do not return my son to me: you - you …” she fell forward, and her brow struck the bars with a clang.

Petrus reached through the bars to straighten her up. He gasped. He could feel her bones. Groaning, Arelwin lifted her head and blinked. She placed her hands on his own. Many purple and blue blotches dotted her arms.

Petrus felt his mouth dry. “What are those Bridge brutes doing to you?” he whispered.

“They are continuing what they have always done since I arrived here: draw my blood, cut my body …”

Petrus knew of the Bridge scientists from their embassy in the city who visited. He had merely never realized the extent of their barbarity. When confronted, the Prince assured, almost indifferent to his anger, that no permanent harm would come to the woman.

Arelwin looked at him sullenly. “I am in no mood for your tricks today, Petrus. You will not shake my mind as you prattle on about your saint,” she said.

Petrus hoped to salvage the situation. “Two days ago, I met with the Princess-I gave her the amulet as requested,” he told her.

“Will this _mal_ give it to him?” Arelwin asked. “Just one thing to let him know who he is in this strange isle …” she rested her head against the bars. Shallow breaths escaped her.

He said nothing. Or asked what a _mal_ was. The Princess De Sardet had looked at the ugly heirloom he had given her with disinterest. In her right arm, she cradled a swaddled sleeping infant. No sooner had he given it was Petrus dismissed from the nursery. “Hush, little one,” he heard her purr warmly outside the door. “My little -”

_That is not his name._

“What will they do to him?”

Petrus willed his voice to sound soothing. “I have seen him and the way he is treated. The Princess dotes on him. Her brother is one of the most powerful and influential nobles in the Congregation: he will grow up wanting for nothing, Arelwin. Wealth, an education, all the comfort, and resources the De Sardet’s and D’Orsay's possess will be afforded.”

“But why?” Arelwin asked suspiciously. Petrus could not answer her. How he desired to separate the bars between them and envelope her in his arms.

His legs began to ache. Petrus stood up as did she. He asked that she eat but refused. She sighed heavily, the sound a rattle.

“Petrus, are you my friend? Truly?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then, return me to the worms ... kill me,” Arelwin said. A hand reached past the bars to rest against his sleeve.

Petrus could not believe what he heard. “You are not in your right mind,” he said, shocked. His skin felt cold all of a sudden.

“I am in such pain and so far away from home. My magic has abandoned me; Gall, my _minundhanem_ is dead … I-I still see his body on the shore. My son is taken from me, and I will never see him again: do not deny it, Petrus. Do not let the Lions stab me again with their needles … kill me,”

_But if I did that …_

Arelwin pressed her body against the bars. Petrus noticed something he had not before: one of the branches growing from the back of her skull was broken cleanly in half. Lions, he thought sick. A single tear crawled down Arelwin’s cheek darkening the dirt on her face.

“Kill me if you truly love me,” she whispered softly.

A guard appeared to collect him then. The food he had bought thrown away. It was some days before Petrus found the courage to revisit the prison. Every time he did after that, the woman he was enamored with begged she die. Petrus refused, and she would go back into her corner, weaker and thinner than before. The last day he ventured down the steep steps beneath the splendor of the D’Orsay palace into the prison he was stopped halfway. A pair of men wearing the kaftans and turbans of scientists from the Bridge Alliance demanded he make way. Between them, they carried a stretcher; the sheet was not enough to conceal the shape of branches belonging to the draped corpse.

De Sardet holding his mother’s amulet in hand, embraced his family. Nephew and aunt held each other faces buried in the others shoulder.

Siora motioned to Petrus, and they left the abode. They left for it was not their place to partake any further. Least of all Petrus, to share in the tears and joy. Outside, night had fallen, stars dotted the sky and waves could be heard crashing into the shore. Many of the _Sisaig Cnameis_ clan stood before their _doneigad’s_ home, talking amongst themselves in excitement. They passed through invisible back to camp. A fire was burning as they arrived.

Petrus removed himself to his tent to pray. He undid the straps of his armor and placed his helmet aside. He tossed the heavy mail shirt he wore to the side and the gauntlets. Once free, he sunk to his knees on the mat. Had he done his part, he wondered then. When his time came, and he parted from the earth to bow before the Illuminous, would He in all His glory smile down on him?

The threat of the Shadow did not unsettle him, otherwise. Petrus spent twenty-five years wallowing in his sins; whatever horrors awaited seemed laughable to the burden he had borne. With a single sentence, he had been forgiven, and his following breaths felt newer than before. But was it enough? He heard the voice of Aphra outside, asking about De Sardet. Arelwin appeared in his mind asking after her son.

 _Kelwin - his name is Kelwin. Why haven’t I returned his name?_ He thought. His anguish renewed.

_Where is my Kelwin?_


	3. Siora-Minundhanem

Clothes dropped to the floor. Siora set down her bone necklaces and charms on the bedroom table with the forgotten wine. Her lips smacked, recalling the tart flavor. Next, she removed her tunic and armbands, then her wool skirt. In the middle of kicking off her boots, Siora sneaked a peek to the other side of the room: De Sardet was already barechested, his back to her, and his own clothes at his feet. Siora watched him as, with some hesitation, he undid his long hair, letting it fan out.

The entire residence was empty save for them, their companions away spending the night tending to their pursuits. It was with great luck the first arrangement of their rendezvous went undelayed. Though, Siora could not resist peeking out through the drawn curtains into the street below. Her heart fluttered in excitement, and she moved faster to undress. Finally naked, Siora looked around sheepishly, De Sardet had finished as well. He stood straight, with his shirt hiding his manhood.

Siora offered a small smile of assurance. De Sardet let it slip, exposing his penis. Siora’s smile broadened. Without invitation, they met at one side of the bed, standing before each other. Appraising the other’s body, with nervous delight. Their eyes were hungry. Siora waited for the first move to be made.

“Speechless for once, Legate?” she asked in a tone she hoped sounded amorously.

De Sardet said nothing. He raised his left hand but stopped as it hovered across her right cheek. Brown eyes stared into moss green. Siora saw a trace of nervousness there.

Siora took his hand and rested it across her cheek. With the same hand she placed it against his left cheek.Tenderly they felt the surface of each other’s marks staring into one another. They were close enough that Siora felt his cock stiffen and press against her.

Their touching soon enough led to their bodies; a hand squeezed her buttocks, Siora traced her fingertips along his spine and a hand pressed against his chest to feel the beating of his heart. De Sardet groped her breast gently, his thumb encircling the pink nipple, pressing down on it, and freeing it. Siora closed her eyes, her thoughts dissipated as if leaves in the wind. She smelled the sweet scent of the candles in the bedroom. Lips locked. Heads bobbed as they fought for dominance in their kissing. Siora felt a tickle against the roof of her mouth. Her tongue was licked. Her lips twitched as she allowed it to continue. When their breath ran out, they separated, panting.

De Sardet grinned at her questioning look. “That is how kissing is done in Serene,” he explained.

Siora held him by the hips as she maneuvered him to sit on the bed. She pushed him onto his back and climbed atop him.

“Come along!” Siora called out, “we are nearly there!” she leaped over a log in her path.

Beneath her feet, the crushed leaves sounded soft. She did not slow her pace but increased it. The tall trees of Vedrad passed as she moved on. Not too far ahead, she glimpsed the light, not dimmed by the forest canopy. An occasional small animal started at her approach, scattering into the brush. Soon she escaped the woods border and welcomed the bright sun out in the opening of the glade.

Siora stopped hands on her knees and rested. The tall green grass brushed against her body, and pollen danced in the air. From behind, De Sardet arrived at her side, face flushed.

“I wasn’t aware this was a race,” he said bemused.

Siora chuckled. “Apologies. You must be wondering what we are doing here?”

“Well, yes. I assumed we were going to Vedrhais for this … celebration, you spoke of.”

Siora nodded. “Yes. Yes, this is but a small detour to my village. We won’t linger, it is just the opportunity to show you this was too much.” De Sardet gazed around their surroundings.

“It is beautiful, as is the whole of Vedrad, Siora,” he said politely.

Siora clapped him on the back. “Entertain me. I think you will understand when you see it, eh?” she offered a hand that he took with a squeeze.

Their trek from New Serene had begun in the morning. The group arrived some days to rest after recent adventures. Each in their own way would be spending the respite about in the city. Vasco had taken to visiting the port among his fellow _Moridegen_. The death of Ruben allowed Vasco his ship back, where he had decided to walk its deck, proud again. Kurt, not used to idleness, visited the barracks to train with the younger inexperienced warriors. Aphra, after being introduced by De Sardet had begun calling upon Sir De Courcillon to compare notes collected in their travels from the lion scholar Serafeddin. Petrus chose to spend his time lounging tiredly in De Sardet’s residence or the palace, reading and drinking tea.

Siora had told her friends over their fast that she would need to depart temporarily for her village. Kurt waved a spoon at her in good humor. “Not packing and leaving us, little flower?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“It is a day of celebration for the _Gais Rad_ ,” she explained. “As _doneigad_ for my village, I have certain obligations to perform.”

“Booze and dancing?’ asked Vasco leaning back in his chair.

From across the table, she caught De Sardet’s eye. “Well, yes. It is a day of remembrance foremost."

The invitation having been extended the night before, the two met at the north gate. De Sardet dressed without his steel armor or cape, but still armed they went off.

Siora led De Sardet across the open meadow. They passed over a mound. Siora motioned once they were over, eagerly watching De Sardet’s expression. In the distance, several structures stood tall and grew as they neared. The giant rectangular slabs of stone were scattered across the area. De Sardet’s eyes lit up. They stepped over a chain of different sized rocks encircling the pillars.

“This is a bonding circle,” he said. “A -A _cerg_?” Siora beamed, nodding.

They stopped at each pillar. Flowers, bowls, candles, and decorative jewelry were rested before many of them in offering. Though Siora could not reveal their meaning, De Sardet observed the glyphs carved into their surface, in contemplative silence. Memories of cycles gone flooded Siora with peace. Many days were spent here in meditation, a time of birdsong, blooming flower petals, and the company of her father. As children, Eseld and Siora were want to quarrel as siblings often did, not the least for the attention of their gentle father. In this area, Siora was usually victorious, though equally loved, she was afforded it all as necessary for her training as a _doneigad_. For she bore the mark the same as her father.

 _Pa, if you could see me now, what would you say? Have I made you proud?_ She thought with slight sadness.

They stopped before a pillar, nearer than most to the center. Siora, still holding De Sardet's hand, bought them closer. She placed a free hand on its surface, brushing away dust. “This one is particularly special,” she said slyly. “Can you guess why?” Siora raised an eyebrow in expectant amusement.

She was not disappointed. De Sardet’s jaw dropped. “Siora, was this stone used to bind you?”

“You are correct,” Siora said. “Sit, and I will tell you. We won’t be long, I promise.”

They sat at the stone’s base, legs crossed. De Sardet pulled a skin out and offered it to her. Siora took it and drank one mouthful before returning it. Satisfied, she began her tale.

“This was -hmm, six cycles ago? I had my training started, especially early, you can imagine, with being the daughter of the _doneigad_. I lived for years and years on the promise of what my father told me. Being bonded, -ah my _minundhanem_ , it is like planting roots; a birth, a beginning. The wind speaks to you; every blade of grass beneath your touch is a language none speak in our mortal tongues.”

“The entirety of the _Gais Rad_ was there that night. I can still see Eseld’s face; not even her sour mood could ruin the occasion! My father was at my side the whole time. How my heart threatened to escape my chest when the _Nadaig Frasamen_ emerged! But Father, he kept me calm and gave the knife needed to spill my blood,” Siora showed her right palm to De Sardet. A pink scar crossed the entirety of its width.

"I almost fell on my backside when the _Nadaig_ planted my binding stone! The earth shook I was so close."

“With my bond created, my father and mother were first and loudest to cheer my name. I was practically carried home on shoulders,” Siora rested the back of her head against the pillar. “That is my greatest memory, the day I feel my life truly began,” she finished.

De Sardet mimicked her. “What was your father like?” he asked gently.

 _Greater in wisdom and kindness than En ol Mil Frichtimen,_ she thought proudly.

“Kind. Patient. Full of love for life, our family, and the _Gais Rad_.” She told him. “So unlike my mother in temperament, but they complemented each other well. I developed my sense of curiosity from him.”

“I would have liked to have known him, Siora, and your mother too."

They spent some time in silence. Siora plucked a white flower from the ground and stuck it in his hair. They laughed. It was good to do so; Recent events had complicated their lives, entangling like vines to trouble them. Siora thought back giddily to their recent fortunes, the trysts hidden from their friends, not out of guilt but desire to keep it their own and no one else’s. Sometimes out in the wilderness, at camp, subtle glances and smiles were their secret language hidden from everyone else.

Emboldened Siora asked him a question. “What does the future hold for you? Us, and everyone?” De Sardet’s brow creased slightly.

He raised one of his legs to rest an arm across it. “I have no idea,” he said. “When I left the continent, I knew I would not return. Teer Fradee would be my new home. I could not have expected any of what has transpired. As Legate, I assumed my life to be no different from the way I lived at court back in Serene. Just Constantin and I against everyone else as always. So much has changed, Siora,”

Siora said delicately, “Like you discovering your origins. What do you owe the Merchants? Do not lie and say you haven’t thought about it: leaving. Joining us.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, causing the flower to tumble away. “It is not that simple, Siora. I have obligations and responsibilities to uphold - hell, it makes me bitter. To simply leave would be considered treasonous. The repercussions ..."

“It’s Constantin too, isn’t it?”

De Sardet said, “Yes, and no. Siora, I’ve told you everything about us-how could I abandon him in that viper’s nest called court? It would devastate him. And with his present condition, I fear for him. Oh, things have become unnecessarily complicated.”

Constantin, Siora felt a shadow darken her mood. When she thought of Constantin, an immediate feel of unease followed. It was not always such, thinking back she had guessed him jovial, naive, and flirtatious. His interactions with her were earnest and respectful. That was until he had been bonded. Weeks had passed since then, and the shock never indeed left.

Siora longed to explain what she knew to be true. Such power and duty of the _doneigada_ was earned not given. It was a relationship with the earth; a bond between one and _En_ _ol Mil Frichtimen_. A life of learning, healing, responsibility, and privilege. Constantin as kind and unfortunate as he was had no right to the power he wielded. Siora shuddered as his face appeared before her; pale, chlorophyll green and black veins of corruption demonizing his boyish looks, and the bright milky orbs of his eyes. It had not gone unnoticed that the young man now hardly left his palace keeping to the dark. Siora far avoided it and, by extension, him.

 _Catasach should have never bonded him, he should-_ she thought.

“These past months on Teer Fradee, they have been incredible, Siora. Through all the lows and highs, it has been like a dream.” De Sardet continued oblivious. “I do not deny it. You are right: I have thought of leaving, but …”

Siora said sadly, “I know my _minundhanem_ , you fear you are too _renaigse_ ,” De Sardet nodded guiltily. For all the progress De Sardet had made he was still reproachful of himself. Full of doubt.

It was a odd thing, when as a Legate he was different. Bold and confident. De Sardet often spoke to her of feeling as two different individuals. It worried her.

“I want you truly,” he said softly. “I cannot think of a way currently that will satisfy us yet. Hold on to hope. Things are changing, Siora.”

“I will keep pressing you,” she told him. Siora bent forward to kiss his mark. “But let today be about celebration,”

They got to their feet and made for Vedrhais. From the treetops, columns of smoke arose. De Sardet and Siora walked the slope down into the village. The _Gais Rad_ was about going back and forth, chatting as they worked. Fires burned to cook food. The spears that formed its signature parameter around the village were repaired or replaced. And newly crafted ones were planted to add to the barrier. Untold obsidian spearheads and red rags wrapped around their shafts. All in remembrance of fallen warriors.

Greetings came from everyone as they continued. Siora replied in turn. Curious glances were given to her companion who kept his composure.

“Siora, _a sir_!” Eseld approached her from the front of their abode; they met at the foot of the steps and embraced. Siora had been gone for too long. She could not afford to miss today. Eseld held her at arm's length and looked reproachfully. “I feared you would not make it. The preparations are well underway, Siora: You know very well we cannot continue without you,” she said.

“Have no fear, Eseld, I wouldn’t have missed this. Merely point me where I need to be, and we shall be underway,”

Eseld noticed De Sardet standing to the side. He smiled cordially, dipping his head in acknowledgment. The slightest twitch of Eseld’s eye did not escape Siora’s notice. Mercifully, a trio of villagers called De Sardet by title; he went over to them. An animated discussion commenced, leaving the sisters alone.

“Siora,” Eseld said stiffly. Disapproval marked her face. “Today of all days, you bring your strange friend along? Do not tell me the others are behind you? What odd company you keep,”

“Peace, _a sir_ ,” Siora said soothingly. “I can explain: Do you recall my telling you about him? Well, for the longest time now, I suppose you could say I’ve been instructing him in our ways. His ways. In return, I have already learned much about the _renaigse_ at his side. It is a fair trade no?”

Eseld remained unconvinced. She bit her lip. “Yes. I remember you telling me. Indeed, quite a reputation, your friend has been harvesting: It is heard in many villages. If I were to believe half-”

“Eseld,”

“Fine. You have been teaching him a bit about our ways. But what good is it when he lives among the _renaigse_? It is like hunting without a weapon. If he wants it, why not let him learn from the _Sisaig Cnameis_ , we have our own unique rites and history here. Belonging only to us, Siora,” Siora rolled her eyes in exasperation. Away from home so long and often, it was easy to forget how stubborn her twin could be. So uncompromising. A rock would break easier than her, Siora thought humorously. Apart from them, De Sardet continued on with his audience.

Looking back to Eseld, Siora said, “Just for today, Eseld, allow me this. We will be useful. I can assure you he will be respectful, and tonight he will observe silently.”

Eseld groaned and threw her arms up in defeat, “Bah, fine. Be careful he does not make a fool of himself,”

De Sardet returned to stand by Siora. “I understand that this day is held to honor your fallen warriors,” he said.

“Yes. A day unique to the _Gais Rad_ ,” Eseld said begrudgingly. A hand waved over the village. “Every spear you see belonged to a warrior who died in battle. In their memory, we repair their weapons and add to the collection of those who fell during the current cycle,”

“Now busy yourselves, this occasion is especially important. I want tonight to be glorious,”

De Sardet and Siora were directed to a group of young adults and children not to far away gathered in the village center. They sat on the grass with nimble fingers weaving flowers together expertly into crowns and necklaces from a dozen vibrant colors and petal shapes. The two took seats among them: smiles and words were exchanged between Siora and her people. De Sardet received amused looks. Wordlessly, he commenced under Siora’s instruction forming flowers into accessories. Children chuckled at his difficulty, but he accepted it gracefully. Soon, the children closest offered him their own to compare or bid he watch them.

 _This is what it could be like away from the renaigse with us_ … Siora thought. The fantasy invigorated her, and she worked enthusiastically.

When De Sardet discovered his past from the Naut admiral, something had broken in him, Siora observed, he moved as in a daze, his eyes blind to what happened around him. Sleep eluded him, and for a short time, food lost its appeal. Siora remembered confronting him all those months ago: she asked if he was ashamed indignantly. He was quick to say no. She asked if life had ended, he said no. Encouragement and support from their friends, slowly willed life back into him. Siora played no small role when she offered to teach him the Native ways.

Thus began, outings and sessions together often alone, in the outdoors, over fields, woods, passing through babbling streams. Patiently, Siora taught him language, shared history, entertained with tales, and revealed customs. And soon after being reunited with his kin, Slan would join in during visits to Vignamri. Siora remembered fondly, the seashells De Sardet would collect into his pockets along walks on the beach.

When did they grow so close, she wondered. From the beginning when they met in New Serene, De Sardet treated her kindly and like an equal. A first she never experienced with the _renaigse._ Siora had watched him carefully measuring his every move and word in their travels. The same manners he showed her De Sardet extended to her fellow Natives. Genuine and without manipulation. 

Siora's hidden reservations about her companions vanished steadily. The hand of friendship readily extended even from Petrus and Aphra was offered.

A sense of admiration and friendship became something else by the time Siora had put her mother to rest. De Sardet had said every right thing in her grief; the condolences, support. His aid in the difficult burial and removing the Mind Shakers from her home was invaluable. By then, Siora was stealing looks when he was not looking. De Sardet returned them too. When they were caught in the act, red faced like children they would avert their gazes. 

Siora had taken the initiative at last, during one of their outings. Walking the shoreline, they collected colorful shells. De Sardet took the most impressive into his pockets. Siora did so too, amused as they went over their finds. Unbidden, she drew his attention and made her confession. Heart racing, Siora waited for his reaction. Relief and elation visited her when he agreed. They smiled and chuckled, continuing their walk.

"How do I look truthfully?"

De Sardet wore a flower crown about his head. Siora added a necklace over his neck. "Better,"

He repeated the gesture with one he had crafted over her neck.

Not long after, De Sardet and Siora would move to a different task: they helped with preparing food without complaint rolling up their sleeves to work with heavy cleavers and knives. Tables were set over the village center; banners hung everywhere, billowing in the warm breeze. Candles and small totems were carved and left to decorate tables, altars, and house doors. Laughter and chatter accompanied the work with no exclusion. Hours passed and the sun set against a red sky.

Food and drink were enjoyed at every table with fists pounding rhythmically on the surfaces to beats of drums. Songs filled the village in jubilant tones; dancing was done without a care in their wild fashion.

Night came. Siora was in her home. With swiftness, she buried through her belongings that lay in her corner of the house. She ignored or pushed aside possessions until she came across the object of her search: a mask constructed from the yellow-white skull of a tenlan with a leather brown hood and feathers. Siora stared down at it proudly in her grip: the mask was once her father’s, a memento Siora held onto. Carefully, under his supervision, Siora had crafted it years ago during her apprenticeship. She skinned and boiled away the hide and flesh, with needle and thread connected the hood. Once finished, Siora presented it to her father. He wore it, grinning, tussling her hair as he applauded his _voglendaig_.

So lost in reverie, Siora did not notice Eseld approach her from behind. She started. Eseld glanced at the mask. “How we miss them, Sister - our parents.” Siora sniffled. “Every day, Eseld,” she replied.

“Come, let this be a night their spirits will not forget,” Siora allowed Eseld to take the mask and set it over her head. She adjusted it carefully, “Your _renaigse_ … he is just a friend?” she asked. By way of reply, Siora winked.

“Siora!”

Side by side, they left their abode. The moonlight played over Vedrhais in its ethereal glow. Moths danced in the air, visiting lamps and burning fires. The _Gais Rad_ waited in hushed whispers, all were seated at the village center. Siora and Eseld stepped onto raised stones before the large glyph inscribed pillar. Voices went silent, and all eyes landed on the sisters.

Siora began with retelling the _Gais Rad_ of the familiar story that gave them their name: of the time long ago, during a war for their home, in their darkest hour when aid came. The land itself went to their defense, trees bent to extend their branches so they may be forged into spears. In their sacrifice, they ensured their survival; and so the _Gais Rad_ went into battle then with renewed hope and vigor.

Eseld followed with the tale of their mother, Queen Bladnid, and the Battle of the Red Spears, as it became known as. Throughout the telling, Siora buried any emotion. She struggled to find joy knowing that at last her mother was being immortalized. Time healed all wounds, it was said, but some healed so slowly. Eseld spoke loudly and passionately, so it seemed the entire woods could hear of Bladnid’s bravery. At one point, Siora’s eyes shone bright with sorrow. Just as quickly, she blinked them dry.

_I cannot let them see me like this, I am a doneigad. Proud and wise …_

When Eseld finished Siora spoke to the clan, inviting any and all to come share tales. The sisters removed themselves. Parents, children, lovers, siblings and friends took turns in front of the crowd to speak of their lost one's deeds, lives. All warriors lost at the Battle of the Red Spears. With each telling, the whole of the _Gais Rad_ took up the name of the departed in an echoing chant.

Siora found De Sardet seated on the grass set apart only so slightly from the rest. Alone. She removed her mask and sat at his side, resting her head against his frame. They said nothing, only Siora speaking to take on the chanting at the end of each story.


End file.
